I’ve spent time in the Emergency Room twice this month and witnessed my share of human pain and misery, but nothing could prepare me for the anguish I’ve suffered recently.

Tragedy struck at the most unexpected and inconvenient time, as these things so often do. I had left the room for only a minute and returned to find my loved one unresponsive. Just a glance told me emergency services were required, and I dialed immediately. It must have been a busy night because it seemed like a lifetime before help arrived. At first the specialists’ authoritative voices were reassuring, but their patter soon faded to a buzz amid the unbearable worry. Finally, wires were connected—how could there be so many of them?—and then the waiting began.

As with any loss of this magnitude, my thoughts bounced from emotion to emotion. I remembered the long life we’d shared—all the memories, fun times, and work completed together. But there were self-recriminations too. Why had I pushed so many buttons? Couldn’t I see that the load was too heavy?

The minutes turned to hours and the hours turned to days as each remedy failed. The idea surfaced of a replacement. But it was too early to think that way—much too early.

The tears flowed freely, but I had to accept that age had taken its toll. At last after several days of darkness, the ultimate decision had to be made. With a saddened heart I pulled the plug.

I thought my relationship with Tim was going so well. For weeks now, he’s called me every morning and every evening with a regularity and attentiveness shown only by the most committed. I imagined him sitting in his cubicle over at “Customer Service (925) 374-1188” pining to talk to me. In my mind I saw his tousled brown hair and his bright, clear eyes—green, I think. He’d be wearing a wrinkle-resistant plaid or, maybe, chambray shirt and brown, tan, blue, or black pants from Gap.com because—you know—Tim’s a guy.

Whenever I answered his calls, I loved to hear Tim’s synthetically young, eager voice—his enthusiasm never dimmed by repeated rejection or the cruel words of people rushing to get out the door or just sitting down to dinner.

But tonight things didn’t go very well, and I’m afraid it might be over between us. I answered as I always did: “Hello.”

“Hi,” he nearly sang. “It’s Tim. Can you hear me okay?” See how sweet? His first thought was always for my welfare.

“Yes,” I answered cheerily. Tim’s passion was infectious. Here, Tim usually paused for awhile, and before I hung up I always thought how nice it was that we could just spend some quiet time together. I felt secure enough in our relationship to know that Tim would call again.

So tonight when Tim called and considerately asked, “Do you have time to talk?,” I leveled with him: “I don’t really have time tonight, Tim,” I said.

“I’m sorry. I can’t hear you clearly,” he yelled into the phone. Hey, Tim, I thought, you’re the one with the hearing problem, not me. “Do you have time to talk?”

The term “selective hearing” flashed through my mind. “Not really, Tim…” I began, but he plunged on, oblivious. He invited me to take a fantastic vacation worth eighteen hundred dollars at a luxurious resort and with discounted theme park tickets. As his warm, sunny patter washed over me, I relaxed and was transported to that tropical clime. I saw myself lounging under the palms, sipping a piña colada.

“Do you have a credit or debit card?” I heard him inquire through my reverie.

Whaaaat? Abruptly the island mirage vanished and reality loomed—dishes in the sink, laundry to fold. A credit or debit card? Could Tim only be after money? What, I scolded myself, do I really know about Tim anyway?

“Tim, I lost my credit card,” I lied, determined to know the truth. If Tim truly cared about me, this shouldn’t matter, right?

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you clearly,” he repeated, his jovial tone suddenly acquiring a frantic edge. “Most resorts accept a credit or debit card. Do you HAVE a credit or debit card?” His friendly manner was gone, replaced by an accusatory incredulousness.

It was true then. I had his number, but he wasn’t getting mine. “Tim,” I said, the lie coming easier the second time, “I lost my card.”

Hearing this Tim was a changed man. “Well!” His voice was rushed now and heavy with the scorn of one whose time has been wasted. He longed only to end this conversation and move on. “I didn’t mean to bother you,” he sniped. “Good Night.”

It seems that selfies are on the defensive these days. Selfie sticks have been banned at Disney World parks, major museums, Lollapalooza, the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona (wouldn’t it be embarrassing to be gored by a selfie stick instead of a bull?) and many world landmarks. Now the Russian Interior Ministry has published a Safe Selfies guide after hundreds have been injured and dozens killed while attempting to get the perfect pic.

In one recent incident a woman shot herself in the head while posing with a gun. (Can you pat your head and rub your tummy? If not, don’t try this! Which hand is for the camera and which for the trigger again?) In June a young man was injured when he brought down a statue of Vladimir Lenin while capturing a special moment. Viva la Revolution! (Or Russian words to that effect. Who knew the solution was so simple?)

In addition to the Kremlin’s campaign, a group named For Security wants the Education and Science Ministry to add a Safe Selfie curriculum to Russian schools. Lessons would be taught by police, psychologists, and professional photographers. Other real victims’ stories suggest they should get some medical professionals (“If you blow your hand off with a grenade, use this tourniquet.”) and wild animal specialists (“When posing with a snake, ensure it’s not poisonous—beforehand.”) involved as well.

Of course, America has its own safety-challenged photographers. Perhaps we should also rethink our classrooms and introduce STEM: Selfie Techniques to Eliminate Mishaps. We do not want to fall behind our comrades in these important skills.

But how about our littlest photographers? How will we keep them safe? Maybe this reworking of a beloved classic, with the aid of the Russian guide, will help. (Thanks and apologies to Dr. Seuss.)

A Selfie Ham

I am Sam.

A selfie ham.

That Sam-I-am!

That Sam-I-am!

I just don’t get

That Sam-I-am!

I’d never be a selfie ham.

Can I take one

here?

Or there?

You should not take one

Here or there.

You should not take one anywhere.

You should not be a selfie ham.

You should not be one Sam-I-am.

Can I take one on a house?

Can I take one with a mouse?

Not on a house.

Not with a mouse.

Do not take one here or there

Do not take one anywhere.

Do not be a selfie ham

Do not be one, Sam-I-am.

Can I? Should I?

With a gun?

I will! I’ll take it!

I’ll have fun!

Hey! You may like it.

Show some flair!

Let us take one on the stairs!

We should not, cannot on the stairs!

Or with a gun! Don’t take dares!

You should not be a selfie ham.

You should not be one, Sam-I-am.

A train! A train! A train! A train!

Can I, should I on a train?

Not on a train! Not on the stairs!

Not with a gun! Sam, no one cares!

Say! On a tower? A power tower?

Can I, should I on a tower?

Should I, can I on a cliff?

You should not, cannot on a cliff

Not on a tower. Not on a train.

Not on the stairs. Not with a gun.

You should not take them, Sam. Not one!

Can I, can I with a goat?

Should I, could I on a boat?

You should not, could not on a boat.

You should not be a selfie ham.

You should not be one Sam-I-am.

You do not like them so you say.

Take one! Take one! And you may.

Take one and you may, I say.

Sam! If you will let me be, I will take one. You will see.

Say!

I like to be a selfie ham!

I do! I like it, Sam-I-am!

But I will take one in a floatie

And I will take one with a goatee.

I will take one in my bed.

And one that will not leave me dead.

I will take one in a train

And clear Amtrak of any blame.

I will hold de-clawed kittens,

But only if I’m wearing mittens.

And I will pose in bubble wrap,

But leave an eye and breathing flap.

I will take them here and there.

But never once just anywhere.

I so like being a selfie ham!

With proper precautions,

Sam-I-am.

*All images of Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss courtesy of seuss.wikia.com

By now you have probably seen the deplorable photograph of Steven Spielberg posing and grinning in front of the Triceratops he bagged. If you haven’t I urge you to Google it. I would display the photo here, but I don’t want to promote this kind of despicable “sport.” You know how it goes—the more publicity something gets, the more people take part, and before you know it we’ll be seeing photographs of George Lucas standing triumphantly over a deceased Wookie and a mounted Ork head on the wall of Peter Jackson’s man cave.

There are many theories as to why Spielberg killed the Triceratops. Was it for the thrill? Maybe. As the director or producer of such high-adrenaline hits as Raiders of the Lost Ark, Poltergeist, Back to the Future, Men in Black, and many others, he does seem exceptionally drawn to extreme adventure.

Or could he have done it for the money? It’s possible. He’s only a paltry 151 on the Forbes list of the richest Americans. One wise pundit noted that he probably did it for the horns. After all, the medicinal benefits of powdered Triceratops horns are well documented from cave drawings (∆∆∆ 🙂 ) to oral Neanderthal lore (“Hohgn, hohgn, hohgn, gooohgd) to the texts of medical professionals around the world (∆∆∆ 🙂 ). There’s no telling what kind of fortune could be amassed through the sale of these beneficial horns.

Perhaps the horns are what Spielberg was after, but I believe there is a more sinister explanation to the death of this beloved beast. Before we tackle that, however, we must address the elephant in the room (address it—not kill it). If dinosaurs are alive now—and they most clearly are (well, except for…)—where are they?

I believe we have all been duped for a very long time. While the official story is that the dinosaurs became extinct after an asteroid hit the earth in what was until recently called the Cretaceous-Tertiary Mass Extinction Event or K-T event, I think the evidence demonstrates that it is all an elaborate hoax.

Images from Wikipedia

Exhibit 1: While the name of the “asteroid hit” was once the Cretaceous-Tertiary Mass Extinction Event, the abbreviation is K-T event. Back in the day when Proofreaderasauruses still existed (I suppose they also were made extinct by an “asteroid hit?”), this kind of mistake would have been caught by a pterodactyl-eyed professional. Today in the Internet Period, however, errors like this roam both print and digital pages unchecked. Clearly, this “mass extinction” story was concocted recently.

Exhibit 2: The space-themed idea of the extinction event is no coincidence. I believe it came from the fertile mind of Steven Spielberg himself! Doesn’t it seem suspect that the extinction event is called K-T and one of Spielberg’s biggest theatrical releases is titled E-T? Obviously, Spielberg is up to his neck in the dinosaur extinction conspiracy. Flush with the success of his earlier movies Jaws and Close Encounters of the ThirdKind (does anyone else see the pattern?), he never thought anyone would make the connection between E-T and K-T, and he allowed himself this little slip in originality.

So this leads us to the big question: Where are the dinosaurs? I suggest that instead of becoming extinct, they have all been captured and are being held hostage to an insatiable movie industry. They are being exploited for our enjoyment. How else can you explain the plethora of dinosaur movies dating back to the very beginnings of cinema? Did they have CGI technology back then? No! If, as we have been led to believe, all these Tyrannosaurs, Triceratops, Stegosaurus, Pachycephalosaurus, Ankylosaurs, and more died out eons ago, how have directors and cinematographers created the video for every dino film from 1914’s Gertie the Dinosaur to 2014’s Transformers: Age of Extinction (produced by none other than Steven Spielberg)?

A glance at some earlier films exposes a dark chapter in our nation’s history—one that continues to this very day. You only have to watch a few moments to wonder: If dinosaurs are really as simple and violent as the movies portray, would their fight scenes be so stilted? So transparently choreographed? Or are these traits merely stereotypes fostered by the movie industry to line their pockets?

Before you watch, I must warn you that some of the content is graphic.

Gertie the Dinosaur by Winsor McCay – 1914:

Here Gertie suffers pain and humiliating dance moves just so we can have a good laugh.

The Dinosaur and the Missing Link by Willis O’Brien – 1917:

In addition to a fight scene between a gorilla and an Apatosaurus (beginning at 4:47), this film contains the first known video of break dancing (at 4:07). And wouldn’t it have been funnier if “the drawing room of the country home,” as it is described in the film, had cave drawings on the walls?

The Ghost of Slumber Mountain by Willis O’Brien – 1918:

In this long film, an uncle tells his two nephews the story of when he, a companion, and their dog went camping on Slumber Mountain. There the uncle visits the abandoned cabin of Mad Dick, which contains books and bones of prehistoric animals. It is also haunted by Mad Dick’s ghost. In the cabin the uncle discovers a strange pair of binos, through which he can see dinos. At the 10:14 mark, the dinosaurs make their appearance. At the 14:00 mark the Triceratops enters. The action really gets going at 15:30, when a T-Rex joins the scene (if dinosaurs actually moved this slowly, they really would be extinct). A terrible struggle ensues, and once again the Triceratops is the loser.

If you read closely, you will see that the last frame at 17:57 could have used a Proofreaderasaurus. You will also see that this film employs that old dinosaur of a plot device: “it was all a dream.” Of course, since this movie is from 1918, perhaps it was a comic revelation.

The Lost World by Harry Hoyt from a story by Arthur Conan Doyle – 1925:

In this first scene, the Triceratops gives the Allosaurus his just reward

But once again the unfortunate Triceratops, after tasting a brief moment of triumph, is himself tasted.

1 Million Years B.C. by Ray Harryhausen – 1966:

In this scene a Ceratosaurus battles a Triceratops while Raquel Welch (wearing “mankind’s first bikini!”) and John Richardson (in his most defining role!) look on in horror. The most shocking thing about this clip is: who knew they had Bumpits! hair enhancers 1 million years ago?

So you can see that throughout history dinosaurs have been forced to wander forbidding landscapes, don preposterous colors, talk in ridiculous voices, hawk gasoline, perform hard labor at stone quarries, fight and “kill” one another, and, in the ultimate degradation, act alongside Jeff Goldblum. And now with Jurassic World coming hot on the heels of Spielberg’s Transformers: Age of Extinction dinobot travesty, I think the dinosaurs have said, “Enough is enough!”

Images from Wikipedia; Flintstones clip art from picgifs.com

I think they threatened to boycott the filming. Perhaps they even broached collective bargaining. Some dinosaurs may have brains the size of walnuts, but they’re not stupid. Over the years they have earned the studios, directors, producers, and investors billions of dollars, and they deserve respect, not oblivion. Is that too much to ask?

The photograph says it all. Yes, it was. When the Triceratops came to negotiate with Spielberg in good faith, he met his end. He made the ultimate sacrifice fighting so that all his kind could live a better life. Well, I say, “You go, dinos! Let’s see them make another dinosaur movie without you.” Won’t you join me in the quest to Free the Dinosaurs!? Don’t let Tricee have died in vain.

A recent research study conducted on lab rats by students and a professor of psychology at Connecticut College in New London, Connecticut has found that Oreo cookies are just as addictive as cocaine. In the experiments, rats were given Oreos on one side of a maze while on the other side they were fed a control of rice cakes. In a comparative study, rats were given cocaine or morphine on one side of the maze and saline on the other. Researchers discovered that when given a choice, the rats fed Oreos spent as much time on the “drug” side of the maze as those given cocaine or morphine.

The results of this study are no surprise to me. In fact, the only surprising thing is that the purchase of “America’s favorite cookie” hasn’t long ago been relegated to back alleys and furtive handoffs. It is an opinion forged through long, personal suffering.

My tragic story goes back to my college days and, like thousands of others, began innocently enough. The specter of Oreos, I realize now, was always in my consciousness. I grew up, if you remember from my first post, in South Florida, where Oreos pour into the state through the easy access of highways, byways, and waterways like mosquitoes after a rainy spring. The police and Coast Guard do their best to thwart these operations, but it seems there’s no limit to the desperadoes willing to risk it all for the big bucks, flashy cars, gaudy jewelry, ostentatious mansions, and freewheeling lifestyle Oreo trafficking provides.

Despite the pervasive temptation of these sweet treats, I survived my childhood and teenage years unscathed, preferring the comforting sway of iced tea and Chips Ahoy. I see, now, that I had been kidding myself and was already on the slippery slope, awaiting only the freedom of college to be undone. All the backgammon games, racquetball matches, pep rallies, football games, coffeehouses, poetry slams, trips to the mountains, trips to Knoxville, movie nights, and—oh, yes—reading, papers, and exams took their toll. How to cope?

I had heard “help” was available, but I was naïve in how to procure it. And then one night, during a friendly game of backgammon, my roommate pulled out a suspicious package and placed it between us. I was shocked, having always believed her only vice was the Swisher Sweet cigars she smoked while making reeds for her oboe.

I have to admit, however, that the pack’s alluring blue wrapper curiously attracted me. Without ceremony, my roommate ripped it open and pulled out what was to become my obsession and my nemesis. With practiced efficiency she separated the two chocolate cookies with a single twist and licked up the white creamy center. I was at once repelled and fascinated.

“Want one?” she asked, waggling one in front of me.

What I should have done was run from the room. I should have prayed for strength. I should have Just Said No. But I had two backgammon checkers on the bar and my roommate had already removed three from the board, and in a moment of weakness, I said, “Sure.” Actually, I said, “Sure!”

She handed me the cookie and I took a bite. “No! Not like that!” my roommate cried out. Immediately, I again felt the sting of the uncool. My high school career came flooding back to me in a hallucinatory rush. Suddenly, I didn’t want to be that geeky girl with the glasses, permed hair, lucky knee socks, and straight A’s in Modern European History anymore. I wanted to taste all life had to offer. I grabbed the top and bottom of the cookie and twisted.

The smooth, creamy filling was a revelation. I felt energized, invincible. I reached for another one and attacked the game with new verve. A quarter of the bag later, I had won in a series of frenzied, inspired moves. I was hooked.

The years sped by in an Oreo-fueled haze. I fell in with a bad crowd, dragging my sister along for the ride. We spent weekend nights trolling the dimly lit aisles of Food City, pooling our money for a much needed fix. At first one bag was enough to meet everyone’s needs, but soon only an entire bag per person satisfied our cravings.

No all-nighter was complete without the motivation and inspiration those chocolate rounds supplied. We didn’t care if we woke up in a pile of strewn wrappers and crumpled row dividers; we hardly noticed the thick cream that matted our hair; and we felt no shame in picking crumbs out of the carpet for breakfast. We knew we would Ace those exams, and we knew what to thank for it.

You might think someone would have intervened, but I was wily. The Tab kept me thin, I always carefully dusted myself of any lingering crumbs, and I kept my grades up. In fact the saccharine stimulation only made the Old English of Beowulf, the Early Modern English of Shakespeare, and the Modern-But-Still-Incomprehensible English of James Joyce all the easier to understand. Even the hair style managed by the lead singer of Flock of Seagulls made sense.

Finally, though, I hit bottom. All my friends deserted me, and I realized in feverish horror that I had racked up substantial debts and could no longer afford my decadent lifestyle. When I got clean and the sugary demon no longer fogged my brain, I discovered this was called “Graduation.”

It’s been many years since those unfortunate days, and I’ve never looked back. At Stop & Shop I’m never tempted as I stroll down the cookie aisle, even if my eye does wander over to the shelf of designer Oreos now available to unsuspecting consumers. I’ve dedicated myself to a healthy lifestyle. In fact, I’m on my way to the gym right now for a game of racquetball, and on the way home I’ll stop off for a Mocha Frappuccino.